Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (15 page)

“And the guy standing at the bar is interesting,” she said, getting back to her descriptions. “He’s trying to hide a good body in a loose-fitting suit. He’s had a drink since we’ve been talking that he hasn’t touched, and he’s keeping to himself. Maybe waiting for someone. He glances at someone, then another, never paying much attention to anyone.”

“How old is he?” Roarke’s tone changed; his eyes narrowed.

“Thirty-five, maybe forty. Hard to say. Probably somewhere in between.”

“Right-handed or left?”

“Right, the side where the drink is.”

“Where’s his left arm?”

She reached across the table again and kissed Roarke. It gave her a better angle to see. Pulling back she said, “Close to his body. Tight.”

Roarke spoke quietly. “Katie, I’m going to shift my body like I’m about to turn around. I won’t. But you tell me what he does.”

Katie sensed the lesson was over. This was practical now.

Roarke put his left hand on his chair and adjusted slightly, appearing as if he was trying to get more comfortable. Not happy, he did this again, then looked around and signaled the busboy with the limp and showed him his empty water glass. A very innocent move.

“And?” Roarke asked, settling down.

“As soon as you adjusted he looked away. Like you were connected.”

Roarke said with stone-cold directness, “Maybe we are.”

Roarke turned around and looked back, not disguising any move now.

The man was gone.

That night

“Next, let’s go to the Mountain-Time line. Hello, you’re on
Coast to Coast.
”

The host of
Coast to Coast AM,
America’s top-rated all-night radio show was into his third hour for the night. It was time for “Open Phones America,” the unscreened call-in portion of the show. This usually followed a one- to two-hour interview that featured the latest sightings from a leading UFO authority, the author of a new book on remote viewing or out-of-body experiences, researchers into the paranormal, historians reviewing ancient prophesies, and more than a fair share of conspiracy theories considered by many absolute gospel.

“Hello,” the caller said through a cough. “Something’s going on here.”

“What’s going on?”

“People are getting sick and they’re dyin’,” the male caller said.

The host could already tell this was going to be a good conversation. There was already intrigue.

“Who’s dying and where are you calling from?”

“Up the road from Boulder. Three neighbors, perfectly healthy people a week ago, went into the hospital. Two of ‘em are already dead.” The man coughed again. It was a throaty, ugly sound over the radio. “They’re killing us off.”

“Wait, who’s killing who?”

“They’re killing us. My neighbors. My friends. Me. My wife went in this afternoon. Nobody knows what’s happening.”

The conversation went on for another five minutes. It was followed by a listener from outside Ogunquit, Maine, with a strangely similar story; then another from rural Mississippi. The accounts were sprinkled with references to big government, aliens, and terrorists.

This was
Coast to Coast AM
at its best; intriguing, mystifying, and on the edge. But tonight there was truth. Truck drivers, insomniacs, and the curious heard about the impact that a group of men, driven to different parts of the country by members of MS-13, were having.

Helena, Montana

The same time

Ricardo Perez tuned the radio in his motel room. There were no Spanish language stations, no gangsta rap, nothing but talk shows with a lot of static. He settled on a talk radio show just because the drone of the conversation would lull him to sleep. People were calling in about what-not; things he didn’t understand, from parts of the United States he had never heard of.

Actually, Perez was feeling pretty good. The army had treated him well. He certainly didn’t feel like a prisoner. True to their word, the soldiers had not called the police. They alternated taking him out to dinner, going to movies, and walking the snowy streets of Helena. They explained it would be too dangerous for him to contact anyone, especially since he was presumed dead. So Ricardo Perez, grateful to be alive, was happy to live off the government in protective custody.

He fell asleep listening to some show called
Coast to Coast AM
and conversation he really didn’t understand.

Washington, D.C.

10 January

The White House press secretary sent an e-mail blast to the networks. The president would have an important announcement at 8:00 p.m. ET. It was clearly a surprise, coming only days before his scheduled State of the Union address.

In years gone by, the broadcast networks would have cleared their schedules. Now, coverage fell on Fox News, MSNBC, and CNN and talk-radio consensus-builders. News producers and fact excusers requested information on the nature and substance of the president’s appearance.

The only heads up they got was the indication the statement would have a profound effect on the executive branch. Speculation went from a major policy decision to the deteriorating relationship with Mexico. It was enough to fuel conversation for the next six hours and deliver a huge audience to the president.

“Good evening.” The president stood at a podium with the long hall of the East Wing behind him.

Morgan Taylor wore a classic black suit, set off by a red tie and the requisite American flag lapel pin.

Scott Roarke had settled into the couch with Katie at Katie’s apartment to watch their boss’s speech. He heard Taylor’s “Good evening,” then his cell phone rang.

“Come on,” he complained under his breath. But the caller ID indicated this was one to take.

“Penny,” he whispered to Katie as he walked across the room.

“Okay. If the president was about to announce World War III, you’d probably know.”

Roarke laughed. He got up, and on the fourth ring, before the call went to voice mail, he answered.

“No time for the speech?”

“Speech?”

“Oh, just the president of the United States.” Roarke kept his voice down so Katie could still hear the TV.”

“Oh that.”

“I guess you’re a tried-and-true Democrat.”

“You would have found out if you’d stuck around long enough to go into the voting booth with me, sweetheart. Now you’ll never know,” Penny Walker teased. “But I’ve got some more that I think you’re going to want to know.”

The TV was on in room 421 at the Marriott Metro where Jim Vernon was otherwise engaged in the pleasures provided by the conventioneer from Buffalo, New York. Lily Michaelson rose above him. He was deep inside. Neither of them was paying attention to the TV. They certainly weren’t going to stop now to turn it off.

A few words came through the sighs and moans. Nothing that would make the housewife having an affair stop or the assassin having a good fuck care. At least not yet.

“We live in unpredictable times,” the president stated. “In the past few months, we have experienced an exciting, but polarizing, election, the horrifying events that unfolded prior to president-elect Lodge’s inauguration, the unscripted succession, and then another which has me speaking to you today and serving as the nation’s president.

“In fact, the uniqueness of my term is that I believe you truly have a president of the United States, not the president of a single political party.”

On any other day, this comment would have surely resulted in endless talk-show debate. Today it would get buried because Taylor was about to make more news.

“This means that first, foremost, and completely, my decisions will be based on what is best for the entire country. And this is what leads me to my time before you tonight.”

Speaker of the House Duke Patrick watched CNN in his office. Christine Slocum stood to his right, taking notes to fashion a few inevitable quotes for his post-speech interviews. Ever since she came in the picture, his image improved. She cautioned him to count to three before responding on camera. He could nod, smile, and appear to think. It allowed him to look like he was patient, understanding, and thoughtful. In fact, it was a device which gave him time to consider how to reshape the question into something he was prepared to answer. Three seconds brought Duke Patrick more prestige and began to erase his reputation as a hothead. If he was to become president—for either party—he had to be, for lack of a better term, more
presidential
. He had his job. She had hers.

“I have made serious proposals regarding the succession process that I’ve asked Congress to support, states to consider prior to ratification, the justices of the Supreme Court to weigh in on, and you—the American people—to view as an utmost necessity. This would revise the law of the land, through an amendment to the Constitution, to provide for a new rule of succession for the benefit of the country, should we face an enormous, unspeakable crisis in the Executive Branch.”

“Bullshit!” yelled Duke Patrick, while Christine Slocum crafted a quotable response in an even, reasonable tone that could be quoted and heralded as statesmanlike.

“Seriously, Penny. The boss is on the air and I don’t know why. What do you have?” Roarke asked, trying to keep an ear tuned to the TV.

“I put together the rest of the missing link in the chain of command.”

Roarke’s silence communicated to her that his attention was split between the call and the president’s speech.”

“Look, if this is a bad time…”

“No, sorry. The chain of command,” he said indicating he’d followed part of the conversation.

“Yes, I found who was at the end of the line. Who made the final decision in Iraq. Or more accurately, the senior officer who did not overrule the field appraisal. There’s only one left.”

Roarke was completely engaged. Knowing this name could help him set a trap for Richard Cooper and allow him to end his obsessive search and leave this awful business behind. It was the key to opening the door to the rest of his life with Katie Kessler.

“But the road to a constitutional amendment will not be overnight. And the business of the United States currently has a process with an unfilled seat. Between the president and the Speaker of the House, in the direct line of succession, should be the vice president. The nation does not have one now.”

Jim Vernon felt the energy build up inside of him. Each deeper and more powerful thrust brought him closer to release. Lily Michaelson tightened around him. She was holding on for him, only moments away from letting her muscles relax. The tingling was reaching right up to her throat again. She blocked out the sound of the TV but moved to the rhythm of the president’s speech, finding speed as the president built to his climax.

“Get to the point!” Duke Patrick demanded.

“I can’t hold it,” screamed Lily.

“You’re not going to believe this,” said CPT Penny Walker. “I had to dig pretty damned deep, and if you ever breathe a word it was me…”

“I won’t,” Roarke said excitedly. “Dammit, who?”

“And so, I present to you tonight a man I will place before the Senate for confirmation; a man with a most distinguished record to the country, to this White House, and to the nation…”

Duke Patrick leaned forward. Whoever it would be would separate him from direct succession to the nation’s highest office.

The president looked directly through the camera lens to the thirty-seven million people watching. “My choice as vice president of the United States is…”

Penny Walker said the name over the phone exactly as the president did. Scott Roarke watched the TV as Taylor’s lips moved in sync with Penny’s voice.

“General Jonas Jackson Johnson.”

“Damn him!” Duke Patrick blurted out.

“Yes!” screamed assassin Richard Cooper as he began to explode inside Lily Michaelson. He heard the president utter the name of his next target and the sheer excitement led him to the most powerful orgasm he had ever experienced. The woman, he forgot who it was, collapsed over him as he continued to flow into her.

Minutes later

Katie tried to read the expression on Roarke’s face as he walked back to the couch.
Surprise? Concern? No,
she thought. It took a few more seconds for her to recognize what he was feeling.
Worry.

Roarke sat down, nestled her head on his shoulder and returned to the TV coverage. He wrapped his right arm around her. Neither said a word until the president concluded. Katie Kessler knew there were things he couldn’t talk about, things he shouldn’t talk about, and things he had to talk about.

This was the price of loving Scott. Katie wasn’t sure if he’d share the conversation he had with the army intelligence officer. If he wanted to, it would come. She wouldn’t push.

“Katie,” he began after taking a deep, soulful breath.

This was something he
had
to talk about. “Yes,” she responded still snuggled in his arm.

“It’s all gotten more complicated.”

Now it was her turn to take as deep a breath as his.

“Cooper is alive and I know who he will go after next,” he said in the most measured tone she’d ever heard from him.

Katie pulled back to be able to look into his eyes. “Who?”

Roarke took in her loving look and gazed back at the news. His attention sharpened and she naturally followed his line of sight to the 40-inch HD screen. There, she saw footage and understood exactly why she read the worry in her lover’s expression.

Five minutes later Roarke stood in the corner of Katie’s apartment typing out a simple text message.

Priority Apple. Bring Zeus Home tonight. Repeat Apple.

Seconds after he hit send, he received a reply.

kk

It was that easy for Roarke to alert the president that General Johnson had to be brought Home immediately.
Home
, the only word with a capital letter, meant the White House.

That night, Katie and Roarke tenderly folded into one another. She felt that their lovemaking eased some of his stress. But it was going to take real strategic planning and his 9mm Sig Sauer to end this. That was the realization that kept Katie awake while Roarke slept in her arms.

“Next caller, Midwest line. You’re on
Coast to Coast AM.”

“Hi. This is Willard in Gaylord, Michigan, and you had someone on the other night saying how they’re killing people where he lives. Well, the same thing is going on here. My wife is in the hospital now and I’m really worried and I want to know what’s going on.”

The host didn’t immediately recall the conversation.

“What do you mean?”

“My wife. She’s not the first in our area. I can’t get any straight answer from the doctors. But we all live in the same area and now my wife is in here, like she’s been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?”

The word quenched the thirst of listeners throughout the United States who found sustenance in conspiratorial theories. It was the first time it was mentioned in the media, but not the first time it was talked about in a lab.

Bonnie Comley was listening to the broadcast while she was driving home from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta. She’d considered using the same word herself a few hours earlier to describe the report of multiple deaths from similar causes in different parts of the country. But she felt it would have been premature. Now it was late-night radio.

She pulled over at a well-lit Atlanta gas station and wrote down the name of the town the caller had said: Gaylord, Michigan. She remained there for the next forty-five minutes as
Coast to Coast AM
fielded similar calls from Oregon, Missouri; Hillsdale, New York; Bakersfield, California; and Jefferson City, Montana.

Comley got home a half hour later but didn’t go to sleep. A phone call she’d received the other day nagged at her; a call from Sam Brown, a former student, now a practicing physician. She spent the night on the Internet with her radio tuned to a broadcast that was sounding less and less like a conspiracy.

Aurora, Nebraska

The same time

Two men were also working the late shift on municipal property. They were in a small Nebraska town, but they weren’t on the city payroll. Rather, they were paid handsomely by Ibrahim Haddad.

The pair of chemists followed procedure with great care. They had to. They were handling a deadly toxin.

The water system in Aurora is supplied by five wells, each with an average depth of just more than two hundred feet. They feed an iconic tower, which promotes the town’s name for miles. The tower’s capacity is three hundred thousand gallons, delivering via gravity fifty-five- to fifty-seven-degree water 24/7.

The area’s water table hadn’t significantly changed in recent years. As a result, the quality of the product remained high and the need for water treatment, low. This made it a perfect target for Haddad’s men.

With an average daily demand of 911,117 gallons, the plan was to introduce precise amounts of toxins into the output over three consecutive nights.

The typical morning rituals of Aurora’s citizenry—brushing their teeth, having their morning coffee, or drinking a few glasses of water would produce the desired effect.